


straight from the heart

by mwestbelle



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Chefs, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Chefs, Community: trope_bingo, M/M, Tattoos
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-22
Updated: 2014-01-22
Packaged: 2018-01-09 15:10:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,752
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1147459
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mwestbelle/pseuds/mwestbelle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bucky is a chef, and this "American Foodie" is ruining his life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	straight from the heart

**Author's Note:**

> Written for trope_bingo square "AU: Alternate Professions"
> 
> Titled by anoneknewmoose who is a champion hand-holder as always

The blog is called An American Foodie. "Just a guy from Brooklyn who loves to eat" says the subhead. The layout is minimalist and smooth, plenty of white space. It all seems innocuous enough, but this is the website that's ruining Bucky's life.

"Let it go," Natasha says. Bucky doesn't bother denying it; there's no logical explanation for how she knows he's been looking at the blog again, but she always does.

"I can't let it go. This blog is ruining my life."

Natasha mumbles something in Russian that's doubtlessly frustrated and most likely profane. He picked up enough to get by in the Red Room's kitchen, but he's pretty sure there's some Natasha purposefully didn't let him learn just so she can still talk shit about him while he's standing right next to her. "Your reviews are excellent. And you're obsessed over what some _blogger_ thinks? He didn't even give you a bad review."

"He said my food lacked 'heart.'" Bucky uses his thumb to scroll back to the top of the page and hits the About link again. There's no photo or identifying information; he's old-school anonymous, this guy, for all that he's a blogger. And people trust his opinion. There are no ads on the site, he doesn't take sponsorships or accept comped anything. It's just him and the food, pure and simple, and it's driving Bucky crazy. "What does that even mean?"

"It means he's an amateur. Not worth the energy." Natasha pushes a binder across the counter toward him. "Put your energy into your work. You should update the menu."

Bucky groans and flips it open. It's his own scrawl that fills the pages, joined by a generous amount of grease splatter and mysterious other bits from the testing stages, but he's not in the mood. "We haven't even been open a year, Tasha."

"You need to keep things interesting." Natasha smiles, showing off straight white teeth that are somehow more terrifying than fangs. "Or your staff will get bored, and we will revolt."

"I already added the heart dish," Bucky whines, and he both expects and deserves the cuff to the side of his head.

"Being a brat and courting the press is not the same thing as being executive chef. Update the menu."

Bucky snorts and watches her sideways as she drains her glass of wine and goes for her coat. "I thought _you_ worked for _me_."

"Did you?" Natasha wraps a thick wool scarf around her neck, and her eyes are twinkling above it. "That was stupid."

*

After the blog went live, Bucky rolled up his sleeves and went into the kitchen. The picture of a braised beef heart in a red wine sauce on a bed of roasted fingerling potatoes was by far his most popular tweet yet. 

*

**What's your culinary training?**

_The school of hard knocks? [laughs] I never set out to be a chef. I was gonna enlist in the Army, had the form all filled out and everything, and my mom just burst into tears. I'd never seen her cry like that. So I got a job as a dishwasher instead. And, well, here I am._

**You got your first big break as sous chef under Aleksander Lukin at Red Room. How was that experience?**

_That's...it's been talked to death, really. I don't want to talk about that again. Can we move on?_

**Of course. What do you want people to know about your debut restaurant, buchanan?**

_It's a part of me. I wanted to show the world what I can do, everything that I've learned. It should be a little bit of me on the plate. That doesn't really make sense, does it?_

**No, I understand.**

_I'm a chef, not a politician. [laughs] Come and try it. You'll get it._

*

Home for the holidays means being carted around to visit all his mom's friends with his big box of cookies in tow. Luckily, despite his grumbling about being hired to bake for _customers_ , not Bucky's aunties, Clint never lets him go home without plenty of sweets. It's nice to know that after all the years of work, all the holidays he's had to miss slaving away in a kitchen, his mom is really proud of him, but it means that he needs to meet every other mom in Brooklyn, it seems.

It's a whirlwind. He's not sure whose apartment they're in when his mom waves to someone across the room and takes his elbow, escorting him over. "You remember Stevie Rogers, don't you, honey?"

"Sure I do," Bucky says. He remembers a scrawny asthmatic kid that he used to run with growing up. They were close, in that intense yet fleeting way that kids are. Steve was tough, for a shrimp, and never backed down, even when he probably should have. Looking back, he was one of those "good influences" that his mom always wanted him to hang out with; he and Steve spent more time riding bikes and inventing comic books than putting firecrackers in mailboxes.

He doesn't remember a Greek god, but that's who holds his hand out with a smile - and what a smile, a megakilowatt fucker that makes him feel a little blinded. "Hey," Adonis says, "Good to see you. I can't believe it's been twenty years."

"It's a long time," Bucky agrees. "A lot changes in two decades, huh?"

He realizes he's still holding Steve's hand, not even shaking it, just holding on like an idiot. Before he can let go, Steve looks down and grabs Bucky's wrist with his other hand, pushing up his sleeve to reveal more of his tattoo. "Oh, wow." He gets the sleeve up to Bucky's elbow before he suddenly stops and lets go, like he's been burned. "Oh my god, that was so rude. I'm so sorry."

"It's okay," Bucky says, even though he usually hates people manhandling him. A tattoo isn't permission for grabbing, but he can't act like he doesn't want Steve's hands on him. He rolls his sleeve up a little farther, holding out his arm. "Go ahead, check it out."

"You almost never see work this intricate." Steve gingerly takes hold of his wrist again, guiding him to turn his arm back and forth. "It's really gorgeous."

"Hurt like a motherfucker," Bucky says cheerfully. "Worth it, though." The intricate shading of each valve, screw, and plate had taken hours. Add in the days that he was left cooking one-handed, and he understands why Natasha still wrinkles her nose at it, but he loves it. He waits for Steve to ask him what it means, why biomechanical, but he just looks up at Bucky and grins.

"It must be nice to get to carry around a piece of art like that."

"Steve is an _illustrator_ ," Bucky's mom pipes up helpfully, and fuck, Bucky didn't even remember she was still standing there. She pats Bucky's shoulder. "Bucky's a chef, Steve. He just opened his own restaurant, did you hear?"

"I've been so out of touch with the old neighborhood." Steve shrugs, almost bashful, and Bucky doesn't know when tall, golden, and sweet suddenly became his type, but it's working like gangbusters for him now. "That's great, congratulations."

"Yeah, well, congratulate me next year. Most restaurants fail in the first year, so."

His mom whacks his arm. "Don't talk like that. You're going to be a success."

"Yes, ma'am." Bucky waits until she gets called over by another friend before he turns back to Steve. "You're welcome to come, if you want. I mean, to the restaurant. It'd be nice to catch up."

Steve tips his head slightly to the side. "You're in the kitchen though, right?"

Bucky snorts. "Most of my goddamn life."

"Then, I think I'd rather actually see you. If you wanted to get a drink or coffee or...something." Steve smiles, a little one that feels almost like a secret.

"Oh yeah?" Bucky doesn't bother trying to stifle a grin. "I'd like that."

"Let me give you my card." Steve digs in the pockets of his jeans, which look tight not for the sake of being tight, but like Steve's not quite sure what size he ought to wear. He pulls out his wallet and a neat white business card, offering it to Bucky. "I freelance, so, that's my cell. Call me anytime. We can set something up."

"I will, definitely." Bucky takes the card and pretends the whole drive home that his mother doesn't look suspiciously smug.

*

There's something incredibly intimate about cooking for one person. Bucky puts his heart (his _heart_ , foodie asshole) and his soul into every recipe for the restaurant, obviously, but cooking barefoot in his kitchen while Steve sits at the counter with a glass of wine is somehow way more stressful than at the restaurant when the rumor goes around that a critic just came into the dining room. 

Like most chefs, Bucky doesn't cook much for himself. After spending nearly every waking moment in a kitchen, he's not that excited to just right back in again. He eats well but simply, but tonight he wants to show off a little bit. It's his first time cooking for Steve. They've been going on dates for just over a month, and maybe that's nothing in the grand scheme of things, but it's something to him. Steve looks so natural in the warehouse-style loft Bucky rented more because it seemed like the thing to do than any real attachment to the style. He's the perfect kitchen guest too, of course, offering to chop vegetables and happy accepting little tastes without hovering.

He's not working on anything off the menu, just some seared scallops with risotto. He keeps his eye on the rice, humming to himself as he stirs it because he's not in the kitchen, he's at home, and he loves to hear Steve trying to stifle charmed laughter behind him. He wants to hear Steve laughing all the time, and it's a weirdly intense feeling for a guy like him - he's had to devote himself to his craft, give up a lot of personal time and connections to make it. There's a reason that his best friends and his staff are one in the same.

But he's paid his dues, and now there's _Steve_. He offers Steve a bite of risotto, which he chews solemnly.

"A dash of salt, maybe," he says, and Bucky arches his eyebrows before taking a taste for himself. He's right, it does need salt, and Bucky scatters a handful over it before smirking back at Steve.

"You're a culinary expert too, now?"

"Sorry." Steve flushes, just a little pink at the apples of his cheek and the tips of his ears. "Not an expert. I just like food."

"Well, that's kind of requirement for dating a chef." Bucky has to pay attention now that he's finishing the dish, but he doesn't feel like he's ignoring Steve. He throws his scallops in the pan for a good sear, then plates; just a little pile of risotto with scallops on top, a nice change from the ring molds and carefully sculpted presentations the fine dining world demands. 

When he turns around with the food, he sees that Steve's sketched him on the corner of a takeout menu from the Thai place down the block. It's rough, but it's clearly him. 

"Sorry," Steve says, setting down the pencil when he notices Bucky watching him. "Habit."

"Sorry, my ass. That's awesome." Bucky leans in to kiss Steve's temple. "Now come to the table. My art will get cold if you wait too long."

It's always a little nerve-wracking to serve your food to someone for the first time, no matter how many times you've reproduced the recipe. Doing it one on one with someone you _like_ is...a little shy of torture. But Steve is so appreciative. He's quiet about it, chewing seriously like he's really thinking about it, but he lights up with a smile when he notices Bucky watching him.

"It's really good." Steve gestures at him with a piece of scallop still speared on his fork. "You can really taste the love in it."

Bucky coughs and reaches for his wine. "You can, can you?"

Steve flushes dark, the realization of what he said obviously flooding his face. "I didn't mean--"

"No, you're right." Bucky isn't that kind of asshole. He reaches across the table to squeeze Steve's free hand. "You can always tell."

Steve grins at him, then eats his scallop. "Does your staff know you're this sappy?"

"Don't even think about it." Bucky snorts and refills both of their glasses. "No one will ever take me seriously. They all think I'm a cyborg or something."

"Whatever gave them that idea?" Steve looks meaningfully down at Bucky's arm. Bucky laughs and rubs his hand over the familiar ink.

"I didn't say I didn't like it."

Once they finish, Bucky clears the plates away. He's ready to offer Steve dessert -- and he even made it himself, if Steve wants to talk about tasting _love_ \-- but when he turns around, Steve is gone. He hears the solid, meaningful thump of a tall man's clothes hitting the floor.

Bucky abandons the dishes in the sink. Dessert is in the fridge; it can wait.

Steve's already naked in his bed, sprawled out like he belongs there. He's gorgeous, like some kind of golden god, and Bucky never gets tired of looking at him. It helps that Steve still kisses and nibbles like he's still that shy shrimpy kid. It makes it feel real, because otherwise Bucky isn't sure he would believe it himself. Steve smiles up at him, and shifts a little, letting his thigh drop to show off his rapidly hardening dick.

Bucky strips down, leaving his clothes in a pile on the floor next to Steve's, and climbs in right on top of Steve. He kisses him, pressing his thigh to Steve's groin to feel how thick he is, getting harder against him.

Steve moans and cups his hand around the back of Bucky's neck, holding him close. Not that Bucky has any interest in moving away. Steve's body is solid with muscle, so warm underneath him; there's nowhere he'd rather be right now. Bucky's fucked around a lot in his day; the restaurant scene can be pretty incestuous, but this thing with Steve is different. That was just sex. Steve is...well.

He works his way down Steve's torso, dipping his tongue into his navel before he reaches his prize. It's not a surprise, considering the rest of him, but Steve's got a fucking beautiful cock. Just long and thick enough to be impressive and a nice stretch without being some kind of veiny monstrosity. He doesn't say that to Steve, obviously (he might have, maybe, when he was drunk, but Steve hasn't mentioned it again so he's striking it from the record). But his jaw strains in just the way he likes when he takes Steve into his mouth, enough to make him feel like he's really working for it.

"You don't have to--" Steve says, then breaks off with a moan when Bucky squeezes his balls in response. 

Steve is a perfect gentleman, as always, resting his hand politely on Bucky's shoulder and not even trying to pull his hair or guide his head. Bucky really wants to know what it would take to break Steve out of that mode, get him so desperate that he can't help him. Someday he's going to find out, but tonight is kind of a romantic sort of night. It's not the night he's going to push Steve to his limits, though that night is coming, sooner than Steve probably suspects.

He does it easy instead, wrapping one hand around the base of Steve's cock and cradling his balls with the other, pulling out all the tricks that he's learned Steve likes. He pulls almost all the way off, to the very tip, and laps at the head, catching a salty drop of precome on his tongue. Bucky looks up at Steve through his lashes, and Steve is staring right back down at him, mouth hanging slightly agape and cheeks flushed hot.

"You're so good, Buck, god." Steve squeezes his shoulder. There's the most minute twitch in his hips, like he wants to thrust in so badly, and Bucky's tried to coax him into it before, but Steve gets all serious and insists that this _fine, you're amazing, Bucky, that's all I need._ Someday, he's going to sit Steve down and explain to him how badly he wants it, and then Steve is going to have no choice but to fuck his throat so raw that every single member of his staff will know what he's been up to when he tries to bark out orders in the kitchen the next day.

But for now, he just goes back down, setting a good rhythm and letting go of Steve's balls to reach back behind them. He presses his thumb against the rim of Steve's hole, just teasing a little. It's enough to make Steve whimper, a shudder go through his whole body. Bucky would smirk if he didn't have such a nice mouthful.

"Fuck," Steve mutters. He always swears when he gets close, which is both endearing and a nice warning signal. "Fuck, Bucky, just like that."

Bucky has no intention of letting up; he takes Steve in as deep as he can. Steve's big enough that the head of his cock bumps against the back of Bucky's throat, and of course that's when he comes. Even though he's expecting it, it's a lot. Bucky coughs a little when he pulls off, dragging his hand across his mouth to wipe away any spit, but he barely has a chance to recover before Steve is pulling him up for a hard kiss.

"I didn't meant to do that," Steve says breathlessly when they pull apart. Bucky snorts and nudges his nose against Steve's.

"I like it when you do that." His voice is definitely more gravelly than usual, but it'll be cured with a big glass of water and a night's sleep. Steve shifts under him, pressing his thick thigh against Bucky's dick.

"Oh, do you?" He grins, eyes dark, like he's just as thrilled with how naughty he's being as Bucky is. It's a great look.

Bucky arches his back, grinding hard against Steve's thigh. "You know I do, babe, fuck. You get me so hot."

"Thanks?" Steve laughs. Bucky's never met someone who laughs in bed as much as Steve does. He acts like sex with Bucky is the most entertaining, exciting adventure he's ever been on. "What can I do?"

"This is good." Bucky grunts and keeps rocking his hips. Sucking Steve off really does do it for him, and he's already close. Plus, this way he gets to just look down at Steve, sprawled post-coital and sweaty and beautiful in his bed. It's not a picture he ever gets tired of. "Just...just like this."

When he comes, it splatters over Steve's abs, which is just as pretty a picture. He smirks down at Steve and arches an eyebrow. "Looks like I'm an artist too."

"You're disgusting." Steve snorts. He leans over to grab a tissue out of the box on Bucky's nightstand, wiping himself off. 

"You could at least let me take a picture." Bucky shifts off of Steve so he can curl up beside him instead. "Preserve my work."

"And have you showing it to Clint? Not on your life." 

Bucky snorts and settles against Steve's chest. "What if I show Tasha?"

"She wouldn't look," Steve says with authority. He and Natasha have only hung out a few times, but there's already a quiet bond between them. Bucky wouldn't have named them as the two most likely to hit it off, but now that they're friends, it does seem to make perfect sense. Steve wraps his arm around Bucky's shoulders. "You still owe me dessert."

*  
A few months in, and Steve has practically set up a second home in Bucky's apartment. He doesn't mind, and he's pretty sure by commonlaw that he's entitled to use Steve's laptop when it's right within reach and his own is all the way in the bedroom. Steve's in the shower, the soft hiss of water almost tempting Bucky into joining him. But he's got too much to do this weekend to get sidetracked by sex; he still hasn't updated the menu, even though Natasha glares daggers at him pretty much every service.

He just wants to check for a new cookbook on Amazon. But when he starts typing, the browser autofills anamericanfoodie.com and, well. He's tried to be good and ignore it, but it doesn't hurt to check, right? He clicks, and the site looks different. At first he's not sure why, but then he realizes it's the black bar at the top of the page. A black bar with links like "New Post" and "Manage Comments" and "Stats."

"Did you decide where you want to go for lunch?" Steve comes out, a tiny towel wrapped around his waist and another in his hands, drying his hair. Usually the sight would be enough to knock anything else out of his mind, but not now.

He frowns down at the screen, and then looks back to Steve. "You're American Foodie." 

Steve's smile disappears, and if any part of Bucky that was hoping for a reasonable explanation goes with it. "Bucky, I'm sorry."

Bucky closes the laptop; he can't look at it anymore. "I must look like a real idiot, huh?"

"No, that's not -- I couldn't tell you." Steve swallows. "I had to protect my anonymity. The whole blog is dependent on it. A critic has to be--"

"So you don't like my food _or_ trust me, that's great."

"It's not like that." Steve sighs and hoists the towel around his waist. "Can I put some clothes on before we do this?"

"You can do whatever you want. I don't fucking care." Bucky sets the laptop on the couch next to him and leans back, folding his arms across his chest. He's starting to ache, all the way through his body; he wants to be held, but there's no way he's touching Steve right now, not after this.

Steve reappears a minute later, still tugging a shirt over his head. His hair is a damp mess, and Bucky refuses to find him puppy doggish or endearing. He crosses the living room to sit in the chair, a respectful distance away.

"I'm sorry that I didn't tell you about the blog. When I wrote that review, I didn't know that it was your restaurant, and I didn't think it would...accomplish anything to tell you when I figured it out."

Steve is managing him, and Bucky hates to be managed. "So you lied to me instead. Did that accomplish what you wanted?"

"I told you, it's...it _was_ crucial to maintain anonymity. It's not that I don't trust you, but...it's a big secret to ask your new boyfriend to keep from all his friends."

It all sounds reasonable enough, but it's not the worst part. That's not what's been niggling in his gut since the first time he saw the post.

"You said my food had no heart." Bucky has to look at Steve's knee; he can't meet his eyes for this. "Is that still what you think?"

Steve starts, then pauses. Bucky's stomach drops, but then Steve speaks again, slowly, like he's choosing his words carefully. "I've loved everything you've made for me. But...I stand by the review. That was the experience I had at the restaurant."

Bucky nods. He unfolds his arms and shifts, extending his left arm towards Steve. "You know what my tattoos mean?"

"No," Steve says quietly. Of course he doesn't, he never asked. Bucky twists his arm, looking at the lines of ink in his own skin, the shading.

"When I was at the Red Room, I felt like I'd lost myself. Like I was just a machine, part of a factory, just churning food out for a ten hour shift. But I got out of there, and I got this to remind me of how that felt. When you tell me I have no heart...I can't. I just can't, Steve, not from you."

Steve stands up and comes to sit next to him on the couch. Bucky feels too raw to pull away, and Steve doesn't try to touch him. "I think you're putting too much pressure on yourself." Steve pauses, but Bucky doesn't have anything to say. Eventually he keeps going. "The food was...great. But now that you've cooked with me one on one, I feel even more strongly that what you're serving isn't _you_. It's...fussy. You're the opposite of that."

Bucky closes his eyes. "Is this your idea to make me not pissed?"

Steve snorts. "It's the truth. But if made you less pissed, that would be nice."

It's not as though he's never thought about it before. Natasha had made a face at a few of the choices he'd made putting the menu together, but she's a good sous and went forward executing his vision. He wants to make it as a fine dining establishment; there are certain standards to meet, a complexity that's called for. At gunpoint, he can admit there are some dishes that he doesn't absolutely _love_.

"Are you telling me," Bucky says, "that before we even met again, you knew me so well that you could _taste_ that wasn't true to my soul?"

He looks up, and Steve smiles, small but brilliant. "That would be pretty romantic, huh?"

Bucky rolls his eyes, and gives in, leaning into Steve. Steve immediately wraps his arm around Bucky's shoulders, helping him cuddle closer. "I'm still fucking pissed at you. Even if I'm pissed for ultimately romantic reasons."

"That's fair." Steve squeezes his shoulder and tips his head in to rest against Bucky's. "I really am sorry I didn't say anything. I should have told you."

"You should have." Bucky settles against Steve and closes his eyes again. "You'll have to make it up to me somehow."

"I will." Steve shifts a little and brushes his lips against Bucky's temple. "I'll think of something."

*

Bucky throws away every recipe he developed while he was at the Red Room and pretends he doesn't notice Steve fishing them out of the trash again. He probably will want to refer to them again someday, but for right now, he needs to get it all out of his head. Tear down and start fresh. Steve isn't officially working with him on redoing the menu, but he does have a tendency to be doing some illustration work at the table at the same time Bucky is working.

"Do you remember the gnocchi Mrs. Morello used to make?" he says. Or, "Does your mom still do those great baked apples?"

He's not as subtle as he thinks he is, but Bucky appreciates the support. After a week of throwing this out, putting them back in, turning them this way and that, he brings the new menu to Natasha. She reads silently, eyebrows moving once or twice, before she looks up at him.

"It's different. Some people will say that you've dumbed it down."

"Some people can suck my dick," Bucky says. "What do _you_ think?"

Her smile is brilliant. "I like it."

*

**Less than a year in, you did an almost total overhaul of the menu at buchanan. It was a bold move for a new restaurant.**

_Well, I never like to do things halfway, y'know? It had to change. My staff knew it, my friends knew. I was the one dragging my feet._

**Some critics haven't responded too favorably to the change.**

_You're never going to please everybody._

**The fact that you've now been nominated for a James Beard Award probably helps too.**

_[laughs] Yeah, takes away some of the sting. Look, I spent too long cooking things that I had no connection to. I was trained to be one thing, but my heart wasn't really in it. Luckily, I had someone who knew me back when to remind me of who I really was._

**What dish would you recommend to patrons, if they want a chance to taste the real you?**

_The beef heart. Definitely._

**Author's Note:**

> You should come hang out with me on [tumblr](http://villainsexuale.tumblr.com)! Yay!


End file.
